


Electric Countershock Resuscitation

by VioletHellfire



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Care, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Junkenstein's Revenge, Mania, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletHellfire/pseuds/VioletHellfire
Summary: “The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.”-Carson McCullers
Kudos: 1





	Electric Countershock Resuscitation

**Author's Note:**

> Art comes from the wonderful Calico_199! 
> 
> https://twitter.com/d_calico199  
> https://calico199.tumblr.com/
> 
> Link to the piece:
> 
> https://twitter.com/d_calico199/status/1288191180031660032?s=20

It was close to 4 pm, and Hayseed still hadn't seen the doctor yet. 

He was in his room, he knew. Potentially glued to his bed, or maybe sprawled out on the floor, a 50/50 on whether or not he was even wearing his prosthetics. It had been three days since he had seen him last, face to face. Three days of watching, three days of waiting, three days of listening to the empty echo of the walls, and the faint shuffling of his own straw. 

Normally, Hayseed left the doctor to his own devices...there was always a plan, always a method to what he was doing, no matter how strange or erratic it might seem. On day one, he left the castle, content in knowing that his creator was sleeping in after a long, long stretch of days where it seemed as if he never slept at all. He could count on one crooked hand how many meals he had in between, and how many times he had even showered. But, that was the life of someone like him, wasn't it? Always creating, always on the brink of something, always just within reach of that ultimate goal. It was all part of who he was, and the cycles he went through. And what were a few hours of rest here or there? A waste. That's what he had called it. 

On day two, he stayed close, but still just outside the walls, his burlap mask warm from the autumn sun as the massive golden flowers in the field just adjacent swayed in time with the faint winds that ran through the rows. He remembered wishing the doctor was there with him, enjoying the small things, taking time to relax under the gentle pressure of nature, allowing himself the means to just simply breathe. How long had it been, since they had done that? How long has it been since they even spent more than a few moments not under the cool halogen glow of machinery? How long has it been since he even opened the front door? Hayseed had these thoughts among other things, idly letting his hands trace patterns on the over-sized, browned, heart-shaped leaves hanging just within his grasp. Was it the spring festival, maybe? Or...before that? 

But still, the doctor stayed, locked behind a thick oak door just a floor above the laboratory he so desperately loved. 

And now, here on day three, past tea time and rounding close to when it should be time for supper, Hayseed sat, perched just outside his bedroom, eyeing the iron handle with compulsion and curiosity. He hadn't heard anything, not even a shuffle from the time he had closed this door, and the idea made something feel not quite right and just out of place, but he couldn't tell what, exactly, that was. His hand hovered over the rough finish, part of him unsure if this is what he should be doing or if part of him was just acting restless. That feeling persisted though, and the well being of the person who was essentially his father moved his hand for him, as he slowly swung open the door with a laborious creak.

His eyes whirred around for a few seconds before finding him, the closed shutters casting the room gray, lying flat on his stomach, wrapped up in sheets that hadn't seen care for far too long. The blanket he used...or what could even be called a blanket for how old and worn it was, had been kicked off at some point and thrown to the floor, crumpled together with whatever clothes he wore last and whatever clothes he had attempted to put on in between. The only thing giving away where he was, was the drawn-out rise and fall of his breathing, a steady pull in and a stuttered push out. 

A small wash of relief came over Hayseed as he took a step inside. He had seen this before. Months ago, when he had another round of manic production, and then a crash just as hard as this. And months before that, all just the same. It was all part of his cycle, all part of the process.

With arms more gentle than they seemed, Hayseed slid his hands under the barely moving form on the bed, gingerly rolling him on his back as they lifted the doctor from his bed, with nary an ounce of resistance. He looked into the face of his creator, with his eyes half glazed and red from either sleeping too much or not enough, and a dejected sort of stare that focused on stars that were never really there. It took him probably longer than it should of to turn to the scarecrow, only vaguely acknowledging his presence with a glance, before letting out a shuddering sigh, the weight from his thoughts more visible on his face than ever before. He didn't have to say anything, though. Hayseed understood.

A light, tick-skiff echoed down the stone stairs as he made his way down, steps delicate enough to make sure his feet never caught the billowing fabric hanging down from his embrace, each movement mindful and careful. The dying sun from the few open windows helped guide him enough even though he could see perfectly fine without it, glowing eyes sometimes the only thing lighting the dark hallways and corners of places that were permanently shadowed. It was one of the many thoughtful features he was bestowed with when so many moons ago he took his first false breath in the arms of the one who had granted him life.

In the laboratory, things were constantly going, constantly moving, much like how the doctor had operated when he had his better days. Tesla coils licked blue lines up wired poles, Erlenmeyer flasks and graduated cylinders sat in disorganized piles throughout, and countless leaves of paper were scattered around the large, chipped wooden desk that sat in the corner, some of them crumpled and then smoothed out, some of them just ripped up entirely. To anyone else, it would have seemed like a space no real scientist would have kept, let alone one that held the position he did. But soon enough, he knew, the doctor would be down here to clean up after himself. He always eventually did, even though this was more what normal was for him. 

Hayseed set him down, handling him softly like he was made of glass, and propped him up against a different side table that was mostly ignored. On its nearly new surface, sat a small block of a machine, knobs, levers, and wires poking out of its otherwise flat and square design, a completely clinical form to something that barely seemed like it had a function. He swiped an arm over it, knocking some of the dust loose that had gathered since last it was used, as he looked over the settings, turning one of the gauges just slightly to the right. When he was satisfied, he locked the number in with just another click. 110 volts. 

He knelt down in front of the doctor, looking him over. Sheets still wrapped his otherwise bare body, head slumped down as if he had no neck, hair a more tangled, twisted mess than it usually was. His skin was slightly sunken in, the hollows of his cheeks and the ridges of his brows more acutely cut, the faint dusting of stubble along his chin making his already white skin appear more ghastly in comparison. Something in Hayseed felt heavy when he saw him like this, even though he didn't truly understand why. This is part of the way things have always been, part of the cycle they always went through. Things would be ok. He just needed to do his part. 

With care, he pulled off his lone glove, and set it to the side. He then took one of the many cerulean tubes the doctor carried with him and that were scattered about the lab and uncorked it, coating his blackened fleshy fingers with the fluid, taking care to not spill any or get it on anything other than the tips of his hand. With his other, he gently lifted the doctor's head, cradling his jaw with his corroded metal paw. 

"...'seed..." he croaked, eyes still far and away, the gold in them too obscured by the pink surrounding it. 

The scarecrow nodded. He paused just for a moment after, before taking the fluid on his fingers and spreading them to the metal disks implanted on the doctors head, coating every inch of the cavities and carefully avoiding the surrounding skin, the blue hue telling him if he had missed any spots or if he needed more. Once he was satisfied, he reached up and behind the covered body in front of him, pulling out two long, thin metal rods with long coiled wires attached to it, and those attached to the square machine behind them. He let go of the doctor's head, gently letting it sink back to its normal position, head lolling without any form. Then, with great care, he touched the tips of the rods to the holes in the good doctor's head.

6 seconds. That's all it was going to take.

A button was pressed, and instantly the sound of arced electricity crackled, the hard fizz of power running through old wires waking the machine, a low, but loud hum vibrating the air all around them. The rods in the scarecrow's hands whined, the same metallic complaint they always had, before that same surge of life ran through them, sparks glittering just at the rounded tips as it connected, surgical steel on titanium.

The doctor went stiff, very stiff, facial muscles pulling in small, jerking motions, as wave after wave of violence coursed through his skull. 

Hayseed watched with intent, hands firm and steady in place as small flickers of light flashed in muted tones across his burlap. He remembered how he was once told that this is exactly how he himself came into existence, under the guiding care of mismatched hands and the brilliance behind them, icy colored bows of lightning shooting through his stitched limbs, awakening his subconscious, making his undead heartbeat once again. He remembered how it felt, that raw feeling of being lit from the inside, a wild, unbridled whip of energy flowing and breaking deep within, bringing himself clamoring together, a new mass made whole. 

He wondered if this is how it felt for him. Wondered if the doctor could feel the way it prickled his skin, the way it cascaded and rushed throughout his veins, could feel the way it pulled, pushed, snapped. He knew the doctor somehow needed this to fix parts of himself on the inside, parts that wanted to fall apart, like some shoddy bit of sewing, frayed edges and loose threads unseen. He wondered, if maybe, the doctor was more like himself then he realized. 

That same button was pressed, and it was over. The doctor slumped down, folded in on himself and anything he came with, collapsed like a broken marionette, crossbar ripped suddenly and viciously from his body. 

Hayseed set the rods aside, and gathered the doctor sideways in his lap, keeping his head on his padded, straw-filled thigh, as the tremors began to sink in, small, rolling shivers that reminded the scarecrow of snow, and of the times when things seemed too cold, too wet to go outside. He gathered the sheets with one hand and brought them further up the shaking torso and over shoulders, tucking the doctor in, and keeping an arm draped over him, letting him know that he wasn't alone, even if he couldn't say it. 

Slowly, he ran the other hand through the thick tufts of white hair, fingers more soothing than scratching, careful, gentle strokes patting it down, taming some of its former unkemptness, keeping the strays back and off his face. Things would be okay, he knew. This was all part of the process. He remembered how the doctor had told him long ago that sometimes people get sicker before they get better, and that he was no exception. It was all part of the cycle, part of how things worked in the world. Part of him still felt another way though, and part of him didn't want it to be that way. He didn't like it when the doctor was sick. It felt the same way his hay felt whenever mud would get caught in it, thick, viscous, mucky, and just...not nice. 

Hayseed paused in thought as he looked down, and noticed the trail of drool coming from the doctor's mouth, staining his overalls, dark patches blooming as it seeped through to the fleshier part of his body. He tilted his covered head and considered the body beneath.

It would be okay. He knew it.

\---

The castle was silent, save for a pair of thrushes sitting outside on the sill, joining in the distant dawn chorus from flocks far beyond. Morning light came in thick yellow beams across the floor, dust motes dancing in their unfiltered shine, silently drifting, floating, settling on whatever surface was nearby. Hayseed watched, perched like a cross-legged statue, on a stool just on the bottom of the staircase, idly observing. He was waiting. He had been waiting ever since last night, ever since he was sure the doctor was just sleeping and not in any danger anymore, listening, standing guard, even though he knew by this point he didn't have to. But he wanted to be sure. He wanted to be there.

That same familiar creak from that old wooden door made his head shoot up, his attention immediately on the stairs now. Slowly, the sound of boot and metal on stone came ticking and tapping down, followed shortly by the doctor himself, fresh lab coat on, glasses fixed and straight, face clean and ready for the day. 

"...hey, you." he said, when he finally spotted the scarecrow, voice mellowed but friendly. 

Hayseed nodded, in the only real way he could communicate, hoping his enthusiasm was enough to tell the doctor everything he couldn't. He looked better, so much better, he thought, watching as he descended, steps light and measured, body straight and no longer cowering. Seeing him like this, seeing him back in his skin, alive and ready always made something glow within his hollow chest, something gentile, something comforting, like the head of a spent dandelion in the afternoon sky, or the halo from a candle in a dark room. 

Junkenstein was home now. 

He stood as the doctor approached him, hands curled at his sides, attentive, focused. A gloved hand found its way to his scarred shoulder, the grip firm but kind.

"Thank you." he said, looking almost like he had to pull it out of himself. The doctor was never one to admit when he needed help, and this time was no exception. But he knew he needed it sometimes, knew he wasn't perfect, knew he could do almost anything, but not everything. It was why he was created, or so he was told, to be the set of hands he didn't have, to be his eyes in the dark, that near-supernatural breath of air when there was no life. That feeling in his chest grew, and even though it wasn't said, Hayseed knew he did a good job. He did his part. 

The doctor faintly smiled, cheeks creasing his already somewhat tired-looking eyes. "Some tea sounds good about now, yeah?" 

Hayseed nodded, ready to follow on the doctor's heels, ready for the day to begin.

Things were finally okay.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this work came about late one afternoon when I couldn't stop thinking about the metal implanted in Dr. Junkenstein's head and why it was there. This somehow lead me down the path of looking up things on Electroconvulsive Therapy, and the many ways it's used. In doing this though, I have learned of its many benefits and dangers, and my heart goes out in sympathy to those who have needed treatment. This fic was meant to have one foot in science, and one foot in science fiction, so take anything I've written here with a small grain of salt.
> 
> The title of this work comes from a Nim Vind song of the same name. Go give it a listen. 
> 
> And thank you always, for reading. :)


End file.
